


everything I ever wanted (I have had like houses haunted)

by blake0tyler



Series: everything I ever wanted (I have had like houses haunted) [2]
Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, I'm a complete mess over them, oof this was rough to write at points, somewhat of a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27473338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake0tyler/pseuds/blake0tyler
Summary: If a lady in a lake can will an entire house into a gravitational point of death, then you can will her to stay the fuck away from your wife.You’ve been in fights since you were born, and you have won them all.//Jamie: a character study//Companion fic to "the show won’t ever end (and the encore lasts forever)"
Relationships: Dani Clayton/Jamie
Series: everything I ever wanted (I have had like houses haunted) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007328
Comments: 20
Kudos: 225





	everything I ever wanted (I have had like houses haunted)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> This show ruined my life. Here’s another 18.000 words because apparently, I hadn’t written enough. 
> 
> This is a companion fic to "the show won’t ever end (and the encore lasts forever)" which is written from Dani’s pov. I think it would help to have read it, but you should be able to read both as stand-alone fics. 
> 
> Title from: ‘Surplus’ by Spectre Jones which is very fitting.

Your first clear memory is blood.

You’re small, maybe only four or five—but the details don’t matter, because all you taste and feel and see is red. There’s broken glass everywhere around you, spilled all over the floor. You see the cuts before you feel them; pain is strange like that. There’s a flicker of a second, a suspension in time, and then you _scream_.

Blood is dripping everywhere. 

There’s a ringing in your ears and you can faintly hear your brother next to you, faintly hear Denny shushing you, saying, “Stop, Jamie, stop—not so bad—stop, or else, Mum—”

You can see his face. His angry, sweaty, big brother face. His eyes are blue and flashing, and his hands are trembling, his hands with which he shoved you.

 _So hard_.

Right off the eighth step of the stairs and into the glass pane of the door to the hall, the one that was cracked already.

The one that’s now—

Your first clear memory is one of blood, and it doesn’t get much better after that.

:::

School’s a whirlwind of shadows. Of name-calling and being punched in the face and getting beaten to the ground. The only thing the boys want to do is fight with you and you fight back like you’re one of them. Always ending up with bloody knuckles and split-open lips and bruises on your legs from where they kick you. 

_Whore. Slut. Dyke._

You have heard it all by the time you’re seven years old. Some of the words are not even real words to you. Just dark curses spit in your direction without any real significance.

The teachers put you in detention a lot. They’ve got twenty-nine other kids to fuss over, to teach math to. To keep from beating each other up.

All you feel, all day long, is anger.

:::

Your mum is beautiful.

This is something you know, because everyone else knows it, too.

She’s got long dark hair, all tangled in pretty curls down her back, and you decide you want hair just like hers when you grow up. She has small hips and tired eyes, and she wears dark red lipstick that leaves marks on your blanket whenever she comes home late at night and lies down next to you on the couch in the living room, which is your bed. Which is where you sleep, even when the men she takes with her want to watch football with the volume really loud.

Often she smells like the drinks in the glasses she leaves in the sink.

But she nuzzles her face into your neck and says, “Hi, baby,” and you’re not a baby anymore, but it’s the one thing that can soothe all the red hot anger in your head, the one thing that makes you feel something else.

She disappears sometimes, just leaves you be for days; Denny out of the house, never in school, playing in the streets until well into the night; and you, sitting on the sticky carpet with her hairbrush, running it slowly through your own hair until it’s wavy and soft. Until you get hungry enough to grab a can of hotdogs from the highest shelf and fix yourself dinner.

You’re good with heating things up. Good at taking the lid off the can and dropping everything in the pan. Good with turning the fire on.

Sometimes there are no cans and you just wait.

If you have a dad, you don’t know what he’s doing.

Don’t know where he’s hiding out at all.

:::

When Mikey arrives, for a while, things look like maybe they can be different. Mikey does have a dad, a man named Stan, who is short and has big hands that are too heavy on your shoulders, but he also buys you stuff.

Most of it’s for babies. Stupid stuffed animals and puzzles with too few pieces, and _dolls_.

But he also buys you a little notebook with a flower on it and the word ‘Diary’ in curly writing on the front. The spine is cracked and Stan says there’s a coffee spill on the first few pages, but he smirks because it was only a quid, and it’s yours now, and maybe you can keep yourself busy for a bit while he talks to your mum.

He pulls your mum into the bedroom and shuts the door loudly behind him, and you grab a pencil and lie on the floor with your new book.

You don’t write anything, but you do turn the pages. You run your fingers over every single one of them, across all the empty lines, and you like that there’s nothing written on them at all, that they’re just white.

Stan buys your mum stuff, too. Pretty jewels and golden watches and tiny plastic bags filled with stuff that makes her act strange. More often than not now, she puts Mikey in your arms, eyes wide and dark, and says she will be back for dinner.

She almost never is.

:::

When it happens—

When Mikey won’t stop crying one night and you think that maybe he’s just hungry—

When you forget just for second, and the pan boils over, burns everything—

You don’t realize you will never come back.

They take you away, with their files and their flyers and their tired, concerned eyes, and you will never come back here again. 

:::

Everyone loves pretty children with long, dark curls and green eyes that change color depending on the light—but no one likes them with blood on their hands and raging anger issues.

You cycle through the foster care system like a wild dog at the shelter; biting every new hand that tries to feed you, every new hand that dares to reach out and touch you.

Everything gets worse, worse, worse.

The fights are battles now; days and weeks and months of slurs and bruises and never, ever being safe. The boys have all turned into men; eyeing you from the moment you enter their house, smirking at every chance they get to run a sweaty finger down the line of your jaw. Every place is the same as the one before; lonely wives and alcoholic husbands, scrambling for the commodification of your care, the meager compensation.

Sometimes, when you lie in bed at night, there’s such silent panic in your body that you almost can’t move.

This is how you eventually teach yourself a trick.

You curl the pinky finger of your right hand around the one on your left hand, and hold your hands still.

If your touch is light enough, if you focus well enough, you can almost imagine it’s some else who’s keeping you this promise; that all you need to do is breathe through it, that all you need to do is stay.

All the people that love you are years and years into the future.

It’s a long, far way to anywhere other than this.

:::

Some boy kisses you when you are twelve years old and you punch him so hard that you knock one of his teeth out.

This is how you realize you don’t want to kiss any boys.

:::

The first time you kiss a girl, however.

Well, that’s different.

:::

She’s called Elise, and you meet because you try to nick a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket as she’s waiting out in front of the film theatre. She catches your wrist just in time, twists it so hard that you feel it for weeks, and says _fuck off_ with so much bite to it that you’re startled into stillness.

“Sorry—” you stammer, and you _never_ apologize, not for anything.

But here’s a girl with long blonde hair and eyes that look like they’ve had to grow up fast, too, and something shifts.

You quickly try to get your walls back up. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

But the damage has been done.

“ _Excuse me_?” she says. “That what you say to people when you rob them?”

Something like heat rises to your cheeks, something like anger, too. You shove your hands hard in the pockets of your jacket, turn around and start walking away from her, but then you hear her say, “You can ask, you know.”

When you turn back, she’s lit one of the cigarettes, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She’s too young for them; _you_ are too young for them.

You walk over, reach out your hand. You don’t ask, not for anything. But you do hold out your hand and she hands you the pack, fingers brushing for a second.

“I’m Elise.”

:::

She lives in a flat with an older sister and an aunt who’s never home. She kisses you in the stairwell, one night, when you’re already two flights down to make your way back to your foster home. 

“Wait,” she says, and then she presses you back against the bannister, hands tight on your shoulders, the whole thing a little uncomfortable. 

For a moment, everything inside you screams to fight her off—

But then her mouth lands soft on yours, and your eyes flutter closed, and you fall, stumble, trip right into the kiss together.

It’s—

It’s interesting.

Something pulls and tightens in your chest when Elise pulls back. There’s a shyness in her smile that you suddenly like a lot, that makes you want to lean back in, to find out what it’s like to kiss a little longer.

But instead, you anchor yourself right where you are and resist the urge.

“D’ya have a cigarette on you?” you say.

She frowns and you feel steadied by it. You like making people angry, and this is just enough. Just of hint of it in the air between you—something you can lean into, feel more comfortable with. 

You’re safer off, alone.

:::

Eventually, you make it to seventeen.

Your hips are small in your jeans, your muscles always tense in your oversized jumpers and jackets. Always on edge, ready to run.

You take whatever you have hidden under the floorboards of the kitchen of the house you’re staying at this month—crumpled up bank notes, a pocketknife, some coupons and a watch you’re hoping you can sell—and disappear.

You cut your hair really short. You don’t want to look even a _bit_ like your mother. Some people will think you’re a boy and that’s whatever; you don’t care anymore. As long as they leave you alone.

London, it turns out, has all sorts of places stowed away for runaways like you. You can make it through if you’ve got quick fingers for picking pockets and enough fight in you to build somewhat of a reputation.

Quick, bloody, feral kitty; will get her claws on you if you push things too far.

That’s what people think of you now.

It takes a long time before you start trusting people. It’s not exactly by choice, more that there’s no other way. Winter rushes in with an icy wind and you need beds or couches or floors to sleep on if you want to stay alive.

The best way to go about it, you find out, is through the pubs. Slouching on bar stools, you make witty conversation with the college girls who tap the pints. You’re too young to be in any of these places, but slight enough not to take up too much space, which is why they won’t kick you out. Besides, you’ve got a quick mind and a pretty smile, despite everything, and you learn how to work it like a magnet.

When you don’t have any money to pay for the drinks they serve you, you offer to help them mop the floors after the place closes down. It’s easy to flirt in the dark, between the glasses and sticky table tops, easy to brush your hand up against someone else’s skin, until they invite you back to whatever tiny flat they’ve got. 

You learn how to work your mouth in all sorts of ways besides conversation, and it’s not bad, not bad at all.

In fact, you really enjoy it.

Love the flush and breath and heat of it. Love that you get to feel closeness and intimacy like this, without having to give up your heart for it. 

People are exhaustive, yes.

But there are small, good things about the freedom of your life. You don’t owe anyone anything, you can disappear when you want to—and no one expects anything of you, so all you’ve got to do is stay alive.

:::

If you run far and long enough, eventually the angry beast of growing up has got to let you escape from its claws, right?

Think again.

:::.

You’re drifting between squatter houses and pretty girls’ beds. But even when you’ve got clothes on your back and the occasional way to make a few quid scrubbing dishes, you’re still your mum’s little girl.

Family’s strange like that. 

Drugs run through London’s underbelly like a current—and your beast smiles at you like maybe you can pet it now.

You should have known better.

Cold of the pavement against your scraped-open cheekbones; knocking people’s teeth out over little plastic bags; stealing whatever you can get your hands on. Money, food, anything that you can sell for a rush of something different. Something to take you out of your own beaten up body for a second.

It’s only a matter of time before the sirens fill your ears, and you’re swept off the streets like every other dirty, lost, and fucked up thing in this place.

:::

It’s absolutely goddamn awful for a long, long time—and then it’s not.

They run you through almost every sector of the rehabilitation program—electric, textiles, cooking, fucking _ceramics_ , of all things—and then, in a last attempt to sort out all the anger in your head, you’re assigned to the greenhouse, and it’s like your lungs slam open to fill with air.

You’re not any good at it, not at first, anyway.

There’s about a dozen other women to show you the ropes, but they’ve got no interest in a scrawny screw-up just like you, so they leave you alone in the dirt with your beat-up gloves and a dusty copy of _Botany and the Art of the Garden_ , until—

“For fuck’s sake, _stop with all the water_!”

She’s called Ava, a too pretty name for a woman who supposedly has a murder sentence of twenty years. She’s sturdy and rough and she leaves you no space to mess up. You better listen well because she won’t repeat herself. But she’s efficient in her teaching, doesn’t take no for an answer, and pulls you up by the shredded remnants of your pride to set you to work.

“D’ya want to rot away until you die—” she cuts at you. “You stop complaining. You pick your head up when you walk. And you find your bit to make good and start doing the bloody work.”

There’s a rhythm to gardening that, more than anything, finally seems to calm you down; a way things grow and die and grow and die.

You could think that’s beautiful.

:::

Tamara, your assigned psychologist, makes you write letters.

It’s a dumb exercise, of course.

“They’re all dead,” you say. “Those people you want me to write to. They’re all dead or close to dead. Or they’re in jail, which is basically as good as dead.”

She gives you a pointed look and you roll your eyes, stare at the blank stack of pages in front of you.

You think of Stan and the notebook with the coffee stain.

Eventually, just to get her off your back, you pick up a pen.

:::

You write things to Denny, first. Angry things. Broken things. You write lists of all the shit he used to do that hurt you. All the fights, the broken glass, the choked-off memories of growing up together. You write endless pages in a rough scrawl, week after week, until finally, you try to feel your anger and it’s further away, somehow softened.

Not gone. But not so in your head that you can’t think through the haze of it.

The pages change. You think about how Denny is also the person who taught you to face things head-on; to lean into a fight and look people in the eyes. Who showed you that no one gets to mess with you, not unless you let them. 

You write to Mikey, next.

None of these will get send, of course. Over your dead body.

Tamara tells you that’s fine. That the point is to try and be honest. That no one will read your thoughts except you.

She smirks a bit, “You’re not scared to be honest, are you, Jamie?”

She really does get under your skin, this woman.

Either way, you write to Mikey. Tell him that it wasn’t fair, how he was raised. Left behind so much when he was a baby, with no mum and dad, no big brother to play football with or look up to. Only a sister who didn’t know how to make him stop crying. You write that you’re sorry, about—

About the day you—

It makes tears burn hard behind your eyes and for a moment you’re embarrassed. But then you think about the greenhouse; about the natural way of things; about light and air and water, and you cry.

You write to your dad. Write it to his grave. Write things for a dead man who couldn’t take care of his children. You hate that you miss him, but you miss him either way.

You write to girls you left behind. You’re not about to make this shit sentimental, so you don’t waste a lot of time on it. But a few lines here and there is good. A few notes. A thing or two about walls and being safer on your own and some _thank you_ notes to people who deserve it, for beds and breakfast in the morning and kisses pressed against your neck, when you didn’t believe you were worthy of touch.

And finally—

It takes a lot of effort to write to your mum.

You think about her long dark hair, her thin wrists, her flowery perfume. You think about how you used to put yourself in a different place when the men were there; the same techniques you used in all the foster houses later. How you can make yourself so still and so small, focusing all your anger around some internal point of gravity so tense it will burst on anyone who comes too close. You think you learned that from her.

And still—

You can feel the way she would wrap around how; how sleep could sometimes be so good. To be held by something other than your own bloody hands.

_Hi, baby._

:::

The first night after you get out, you take a good hard look at yourself in the mirror.

You’re still slight but you’ve got muscles now; your jaw is more defined; your eyes look clear and focused.

The next day, you put on your nicest shirt and interview with Dominic Wingrave for a position at his estate. 

:::

The grounds of Bly Manor are so _vast_. Every time you round another corner, there’s more space stretching out in front of you. So much earth. So much green to work with.

On your first day, you sneak into the kitchen for some food and get smacked right on the fingers by Owen, who says, “This is my best stew! Sit down if you’re going to eat, or else you’ll ruin the taste of heaven.”

He’s easy to talk to. Goofy and kind, and you don’t like men very much—not the best track record—but you can tell quick enough that you and him will get along just fine.

Mrs. Grose—Hannah—comes walking down the stairs yelling about _whose muddy foot prints are all over the floor_ , but when she sees you, her face changes.

She winks and she says, “Good. I could use another woman ‘round this house. The cook’s been driving me crazy.”

The kids, you get close to in your own way, on your own time.

Flora loves sitting on the floor of the greenhouse and chatting to you while you work.

She’s a darling little thing, of course. Has a way of wrapping people right around her little finger, all girly charm and sweet, soft smiles—so different from how you were as a child. But she’s kind and quick-witted in a way that very quickly becomes your favorite thing about her.

Since she likes to chat so much, you spin memories from London into adventure stories that she’s probably too young for, but she gets a glint in her eyes that makes you feel a rush of affection for her every time.

And, the thing is—

Well.

No child should ever have to grow up without their parents.

You can feel it sometimes in the way that Flora grips your hand a little too tightly when you walk back to the house for lunch. In the way she hugs herself against your leg, just needing _something_ to hold on to.

You know how it feels.

It’s why you and Miles get along, despite the fact that you sometimes want to shove him right into the lake. He gets under your skin, but you love him for it. For the way his grief leans into anger, like yours did. For the way he sometimes kneels down in the dirt next to you without a care in the world for his expensive trousers and lets you explain how the earth works; how to grow something from nothing.

When Rebecca arrives, things click into place.

The whole house is so big and excessive that it can’t be managed by anyone alone, and so you and Owen and Hannah and Rebecca each do your part in keeping it turning on its axis.

You have no thoughts for family, never have had any. But this certainly hints at it.

Until, of course, Peter Quint fucks it all up. 

:::

It’s a whole fucking mess.

A whole _fucking_ mess.

When Rebecca—

When she—

You’ve got half a heart to leave Bly Manor for what it is and return to London like you never left in the first place, but unfortunately you’ve started to give a shit.

You can’t bear to look at Miles and Flora’s faces, can’t bear to see the grief in Hannah’s eyes. You curse yourself, once again, for not being able to leave anything behind you—all the memories of dark and death from your past rising right up again.

The last thing you need right now, is a pretty girl.

:::

Dani Clayton is so bloody American.

You’re kind of annoyed by it, at first.

She walks into the place, all charm and energy, ready to get to work and make the world a better place, or whatever it is she thinks she’ll do here—and, of course, she’s got to have hair that looks like spun gold and a smile like _that._

You watch her arrive, that first day. There are voices echoing through the trees and you manage to catch a glimpse of her as the four of them make their way up to the house: Hannah, the children, and _Danielle Clayton_.

Something in your chest kind of stutters at the sight of her.

She’s in a denim jacket and a white t-shirt, and you’re—

God, she’s really—

You blink hard, before turning away, so annoyed at yourself.

She looks like the girls in London with boyfriends, and you really, _really_ do not need anything or anyone else to mess up your life right now. 

As you walk into the kitchen, you glance over at her for just fraction of a second, and you decide, right there and then, that the best thing to do, is to ignore her.

Best you stay uninvolved.

And so, you wash your hands at the sink, feeling her looking at your back, noticing you, and you think to yourself: yeah, this is how it’s going to be. You’re not very nice and it’s best that she learns that quickly.

But then, of course—

“Was there somebody working on the grounds today? Maybe a repair man or something?”

You have to look up and look at her, because she’s not shy about cutting to the chase, then. Not shy about speaking up and being here.

Hannah frowns. “I don’t believe so.”

“Cause I saw a guy,” Dani Clayton says. “On the parapet, on my way in—”

And, really, she’s so American, isn’t she? Looking almost affronted at the idea that someone was out there, on the property.

Looking pretty and—

“ _On_ the parapet?” Owen says.

“Yeah,” Dani says.

You try not to make direct eye contact with her. “Can’t imagine.”

The conversation moves on and you add something about people coming ‘round to see the gardens, and then Hannah leans toward Dani and says, “Oh, you must have imagined it, dear.”

In that second, you can see her face fall just a bit, can almost read the thought that seems to cross her mind.

_Right. Imagination._

You scoff a little at yourself, taking a bite of your food and trying not to _notice_ her so goddamn hard.

She’s just the new au pair. You should have no interest in getting any closer to her.

Who knows how long she’ll even stick around?

:::

“So, Owen—thoughts on the new au pair?”

Fine.

Maybe she’s hard to ignore.

Hannah swats at you. “ _Gossip_!”

“What—” You smirk. “‘s just Christian concern, Hannah…” You let your eyes drift once again to the scene in front of you; Dani Clayton, hair braided back, clad in all denim for some reason, on her knees in the dirt, making the kids pull weeds out of the ground.

“Alright, fine,” you go on. “On a scale of zero to American, how would you rate her?”

Owen and Hannah grin at each other. “… _American_.”

You laugh, bring your cigarette back to your mouth. From across, Dani glances back at the three of you, giving Owen a little wave.

You can’t help yourself. “Though, maybe a bit too pretty…” It feels strange to say it out loud, so you point your muddy boot in Owen’s direction. “Do you think she’s pretty, Owen?”

“ _Jamie_.”

Owen gives you an awkward sort of laugh, and _this_ you can work with. You laugh and joke a bit, and you feel light and casual enough, until Hannah shushes you and says, “Romances don’t fare well at Bly, do they?”

“We’re just having a laugh.”

“I know,” she says. “But then that’s how it starts.”

Owen, charming like always, winks as he gets to his feet. “Don’t worry, I only have eyes for you, Hannah.”

You salute him.

_Romances don’t fare well at Bly._

Good thing you’re not here to romance anyone, then.

:::

But, oh, she draws you in, doesn’t she?

With those piercing blue eyes and that shaky bravery. With whatever shadows are troubling her, the ones she tries so desperately to hide away from.

She’s fierce in a way you’re not ready for at all.

When you talk her down, that first time she runs down the stairs of the manor halfway into a panic attack, you manage to do it almost accidentally. You don’t really know how it happens. All you know is that you like it better when she smiles, so you chat on—something about plants and child-raising advice—until she lets out a laugh.

It still sounds like a sob, but it’s something.

“It’s not so bad, right?” you say, shoving your hands kind of awkwardly in your pockets.

Dani breathes out. “Yeah.”

And, then, because you want the shakiness to disappear from her voice—

(even though you shouldn’t _care_ ; even though you shouldn’t have a single bone in your body left to care for pretty, crying girls, because you should know better, should know—)

“I cry three, maybe four times a day ‘round here. Five if I’m really being honest with myself.” You try to sound light. “How else d’you think I keep all these fucking plants watered?” She meets your eyes. “With my endless well of deep, inconsolable tears, that’s how.”

Dani’s mouth quivers into a shaky smile. The sight of it makes your heart swell a little bit.

“It’s what got me the job in the first place,” you add, and she laughs, soft and not with a lot of heart.

But she laughs.

She really is very beautiful, you realize. Even like this. Even with tears in her eyes and trembling hands and tension making the line of her shoulders—which, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been looking at—all tight.

Her breathing comes out a little ragged, and you can’t hold yourself back from telling her something honest, something real. “Look. You’re doing great.”

She shakes her head and wipes at her eyes, like _yeah, sure_.

“You’re doing great,” you repeat.

Again, she turns to look at you. Her mouth is still taut, but she says, “Thank you.”

“Any time.”

Dani sighs and part of you wonders what she would do if you would put a hand on her shoulder. Whether she would let you touch her, soft, like that.

The thought startles you.

You clear your throat, almost embarrassed, rushing into action.

“Right. Well—back to it, then.” You lift your stuff off the ground. “Chin up, Poppins.”

The nickname slips past your lips before you can hold it back. It’s a good thing Dani is not facing you directly, won’t be able to see any of the color on your cheeks as you enter the house and get back to work.

:::

Miles Wingrave can be such a little _fucking_ shit sometimes and it’s honestly time that someone roughs him up real good and—

“A little boy cut a few flowers, what’s the big d—”

All your anger explodes, just like that. “They weren’t ready to be cut!”

Dani stares at you.

You can feel your chest heave with your breathing. Everything red, red, red. You never fucking learn, do you? There’s a raging fire inside your body, everything inside you angry and harsh and _red_ —and it’s not that even that he destroyed something. Kids mess up. Kids break things. It’s that he destroyed something beautiful and something alive and something that was yours, and he did it on purpose. 

Dani’s right in front of you; pretty lips and pretty eyes, and no anger, just the slightest frown on her face, and—

God, you’re going to lose your mind.

“Look—I—”

Your feelings are all over the fucking place. Miles destroyed an entire flower bed and here you are, thinking about a _girl_ , and feeling like all your control is slipping, like a lot of inconvenient things are happening, all at the bloody same time, and you don’t know how to—

“I just—” It’s hard to get the words out. “I have a way of doing things and I—I don’t like people messing about with my garden.”

“No, you’re right,” she says.

You don’t even know why you even told her that, about your way of doing things.

But…

“You’re right.” Dani is nodding, not fazed at all. “I’ll talk to him.” 

Some of the tension leaves your body. You give her quick nod back. “Of course.”

And part of you is embarrassed, suddenly, that you lost yourself for a second there, that she got to see a glimpse of—

Of—

But then again, maybe Dani Clayton knows what it’s like when your past catches up with you once in a while.

You lick at your bottom lip, take a breath, try to get back to something softer.

“Look, could we just…” You gesture in her direction. “… go back to the bit where, uh—you were acting mental and I had to talk _you_ down?”

She laughs, a loose and surprised sound. It makes the corners of your mouth curl up. She looks a little flushed, and your mind — really very useless these days — stumbles right over the question of how Dani would look like truly angry.

You’ve seen glimpses of it with the kids, of course. But part of you thinks that’s not it. Part of you wants to know what she looks like with flashing eyes, blush down her neck—

She’s still staring back at you, and something passes between the two of you, right before you manage to shake yourself out of it with a quiet laugh.

_God._

This has _got_ to stop.

And yet, you wink at her. “Come on, Poppins. Let’s get back.”

:::

She looks like the girls in London with boyfriends.

It’s going to be a problem.

You were probably not meant to overhear Dani say any of this, but you can’t help it that you’re already in the kitchen, later that afternoon, helping yourself to tea when—

“… engaged, actually.”

Hannah’s voice echoes against the wall. “You were going to get married?”

“Well, it’s—” Dani’s voice catches in her throat when she sees you. “Oh, Jamie, hi.”

She clears her throat and, absurdly, _blushes_.

You give her nod, trying to ignore the clenching feeling in your stomach. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“That would be great, love,” Hannah says, taking a seat at the long kitchen table and turning back to Dani. “So, what—”

“—happened?” Dani finishes. She sits down too and fumbles with her sleeve. “Well, it’s… I kind of…” Her voice catches. “To be honest, I don’t really talk about it often.”

Hannah’s face softens immediately. You’re still at the stove, hand on the kettle, but for some reason you can’t really bring yourself to move.

“The thing is…” Dani says. “Well, he—”

_Girls with boyfriends._

You knew it.

The spike of jealousy in your chest is quick but harsh; deep and aching, in a completely disproportionate way. You clench your jaw, will yourself to let it go.

“Did he break up with you?” Hannah says, forgetting herself for a second.

“I’m—” Dani’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry, can we—can we talk about something else, please?”

You turn around to place a steaming cup right in front of her.

You click your tongue at Hannah. “Stop harassing the poor girl into talking, Hannah. Or at least fix her a strong drink before you do.”

Dani snorts, half sob, half laugh, and Hannah narrows her eyes at you but lets it slide, probably because she, too, hates seeing Dani upset.

“Very well,” Hannah says. “If you ever need to speak, we’re here for you, dear.”

Dani smiles thankfully at the chance to change the topic. She asks Hannah some irrelevant question about the town of Bly, and you sit down at the head of the table, fingers on your cup, trying to focus. But your mind is running through all sorts of scenarios.

_Engaged._

That’s serious business.

You wonder if she’s alright.

You wonder if she got dumped—

( _Which fucking prick would ever dump Dani Clayton?_ your mind provides, unhelpfully)

You breathe in slowly, glance up and meet her eyes. She gives you a shy smile that makes your heart beat faster, and after one more moment of frustration, you give in to the feeling and smile back.

Apparently, you can forget about getting a grip on yourself, then.

:::

“People do, don’t they?” Dani says. “Mix up love and possession.”

She’s so close to you on the couch.

You didn’t think that this was how your night was going to go. Not one bit.

Hannah had called you in a panic; going on and on about Peter fucking Quint, of all people, and you and Owen had both driven up to the house as fast as you could, ready to face the prick and be done with him. Never mind you had ended up nearly shooting Dani in the forest because she scared you half to death.

It’s been a long night. You feel hot from the fire, hot from the wine, and even hotter from the fact that she’s sitting this close to you. 

Every time you think you’ve made up your mind about Dani Clayton, she surprises you again.

You can feel your mouth twitch as you think about Peter and Rebecca, think about your mother, about how often people end up screwing each other over for what they call love.

Not worth it.

No one’s worth that ugliness.

Dani’s eyes are locked on yours and you swallow hard. “Yeah, they do.”

“I don’t think that should be possible.” Her voice is low, almost a whisper. You have to fight the urge to lean in even closer. “I mean, they’re opposites, really, love and ownership.”

She says it like it’s obvious, like she genuinely can’t believe that people get this wrong. You can feel your heart beating fast and high up in your chest. The air between the two of you feels warm and tight; something so close and yet _just_ out of reach.

Like your world is suddenly on the edge of tipping over

“Yeah,” you breathe out, shaky from how dangerous this feeling feels; how electric and vulnerable and _different_.

“They really ought to be in bed.”

Hannah’s voice cuts through, and Dani, _god_ , takes a full second to break eye contact with you and snap to attention. “Oh, _yes_.” 

She throws the blankets off, gets up from the couch. To give your hands something to do, you bend down and pick up Flora. She wakes a little bit. “You’re the coolest.”

You smile down at her, squeeze her a little tighter.

Your whole body feels warm.

:::

In the dream, you kiss her.

You lie down on the couch in all your clothes, half under a blanket, and maybe it’s the wine and the heat from the fire, but before you know it, you’ve drifted off.

It’s a strange dream.

Dark, quiet rain. You’re on the ground, lying on your back, and there are flowers twisted all around your body, almost holding you to the ground. She kneels down next to you, whispers your name. Her eyes are dark, but her smile so kind, so _good._ You want to reach for her, but it’s impossible—

Until—

Dani is careful. Places her hand on the vines curled around your arms, your wrists; she untangles them slowly and says, “They’re opposites, really. I promise, they’re opposites.”

You lean up and into her, hand on the back of her neck. When you kiss, it lights you up completely.

You wake up with your back stiff and your muscles sore. Almost like you really have slept on the cold, hard floor of the woods.

You hope no one sees you blush. 

:::

She takes your hand in hers when you’re about to step into your truck — after story time, after the news about Owen’s mum — and the one thought that crosses your mind is, _oh, fuck._

Thing is, you could barely get these feeling under control thinking she was straight.

But if she’s—

You step away from her before you can do something as idiotic as _actually_ kissing her, but still, you can’t help but turn around one last moment.

_Who the hell knew._

:::

The funeral dress is short and shiny. She looks…

Well.

“… does look a bit like you’re trying to scandalize the village,” you say, and then to crack a joke, add, “Can’t say I fault the general principle.” 

She barely responds to it. The only expression on her face is stress. “I just don’t want to let Owen down.”

Your heart aches a bit at the words. “He won’t mind. Honestly, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Dani stares at you. “Really?”

“He said as much.” You try to make it sound comforting. “Was pretty clear.”

She brings her hands up, runs them through the mess of her hair—the mess of her hair that makes something flutter tight in your stomach, despite everything. You feel a blush rise to your cheeks.

God.

Death is a crazy, crazy thing.

Fucks everything up, and yet, it can’t touch every single moment.

“Okay, yeah,” Dani is saying. “That’s—that’s a relief, actually. I had a funeral, in my own life, not so long ago, and I feel like this is, um—”

You get to your feet before you can really hold yourself back. “Hey.” Your hands brush against her elbows, steadying her. “Poppins. It’s your day off.” She gives you the weakest smile and it’s encouragement enough to add, “I promise, I don’t need you to be my date to Owen’s mum’s funeral.”

She laughs, softly, and her body releases some of the tension. You want to do everything you can to make her feel better.

“Okay.” She takes a breath. “Okay. Then, can you help me get this thing off?”

She runs her hand over the fabric of the dress and you clear your throat, try to make her smile wider. “Blimey.”

“No, seriously.” She laughs and you move to stand behind her. “The, uh—the zipper.”

You place your hand on the small of her back, fingers careful as you drag the zipper down. Her skin is smooth and pale and—

She startles away from you so abruptly that your heart shoots up in your throat.

“Did I pinch you?”

Her face is stricken with fear, but she recovers quickly. “No, I’m sorry.”

She runs a hand through her hair, tries to smile.

Your heart wants to be so, _so_ careful with her.

“Alright,” you say slowly. “Well, I’ll be back in a few hours.” She smiles. “And if I find out you’ve not been relaxing—” Anything to keep that smile on her face. “—there’ll be serious consequences.” 

She chuckles, and it’s _cute_. “Okay.”

You can’t keep the smile from your face. The whole thing is kind of flirty and risky, and I shouldn’t feel so good, but it does. “Yeah?”

She watches you walk away. You don’t want to close the door and leave her, but you tell yourself, she’ll be here when you get back.

:::

And she is.

It’s a long and heavy day, and the bottle of wine by the bonfire is a welcome moment to wind down. Sure, it’s freezing and Owen tires to annoy you a bit, but more than anything, that feels normal—and you need that. He needs it, too.

To be honest, all of you need it.

There’s something twitchy and restless about Dani as you sit around the fire. Something dark behind her eyes. You try as best as you can to ignore it, but then you end up in the greenhouse together—

(and you don’t really know how it happened; whether either of you suggested it or not, whether you took hold of her hand for a second and pulled her along, away from the fire, but all of a sudden, you’re huddled together on the bench, blankets and all, and—)

“I’m not gonna ask if you’re alright, ‘cause I don’t like being lied to,” you say. “So, what’s wrong?”

She gulps the wine down and then says, “I thought I saw—Peter Quint.”

You can feel yourself frown. “But it wasn’t?”

“Of course not.” Dani worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s not the first time I’ve… seen things—that aren’t there.”

You thought as much.

Still, you can see the effort it takes for her to say it.

You press gently. “So, what else?”

She puts the bottle of wine on the floor, and then it all comes spilling out. About her fiancé, and that he died, and that she can’t stop _seeing_ him; the fright of it, the terror.

_We were about to break up—we—I’d broken—we had broken up—I’d broken up, I guess—right before—right… before…_

Your chest clenches painfully. “Jesus, Dani, the same day?”

She nods and you feel like—

You feel like—

But then—

“Is he here now?” You suddenly need to check. 

She blinks, makes a face like she hates you have to ask that question, but she glances around all the same. “No.”

You’re silent for a moment, before—

Well, you’ve got to say something, right?”

“Good.” She glances back at you. “‘Cause, you know, I’ll sort him out for you if I have to.” The corners of Dani’s mouth twitch and you shrug, faux confidence, anything to make her smile. “Oi! Dead boyfriend? Give it up, mate! It’s over!”

Her smile grows a little bit wider, a little bit softer. She’s looking at you with something in her eyes that you can’t really put a name to, but it’s—

It warms you up completely.

“Seriously, Poppins.” You lean in a bit closer. “How are you still standing?”

Her voice quivers. “Think I’m crazy?”

_Oh, Dani._

You exhale slowly. “I think you’re surprisingly sane, considering.”

She’s sitting very close to you, all shaky breath and trembling hands, and it’s like something pushes forward in your body, pushes you to be open and honest. “Look,” you say, and for some reason Dani’s eyes drop to your mouth. “I know what it feels like. To feel like you can’t find your—”

The press of her mouth on yours cuts you off.

It’s needy and desperate, the way she kisses you, so much it knocks you back a bit. But then the feeling registers; the way her mouth is hot and soft, the tight grip of her hands on your clothes, how maddingly _good_ it is—

Your hand drifts to her jaw and the kiss breaks.

You stroke her skin softly. “You sure?”

She trembles, glances over your shoulder, and for one _awful_ , worrying heartbeat you think she pull back from you completely, but then she says, “Yes.”

And you can’t help yourself; pulling her in close, thinking, whispering _thank fuck_ , smiling right into the kiss as you close the gap, and Dani giggles into your mouth with sweet relief right before the whole thing heats up.

Your hand tangles in her hair and she keeps pulling on your jacket, kissing you harder, kissing you _deeper_ , and you think you’re going to lose your mind, your heart, your whole—

She startles away from you so abruptly that it shocks you through your whole body.

_Jesus._

Your hand shoots up to your mouth. “Okay.”

“Right—um.” Dani clears her throat, panic radiating off of her. “I don’t know what to… I don’t know what to say—”

Your mind is quicker than your body, already making excuses, already— “Just forget about it. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. Just—”

She tries to reach for you. “ _Jamie_.”

Your whole body has gone stiff. All your walls up, just like that. “You were just telling me— _literally_ just telling me that you weren’t up for this.” It aches in your body. _Stupid. Stupid_. Such a stupid idea. “Just—let’s…” You stand, Dani’s hand, reaching, trying to keep you here. “Let’s get back.”

You move to the door, still not thinking clearly, still not—

“Another night, maybe.” You just want to get out of here. “Another time, maybe.”

Find Owen and get the fuck out of here.

You walk away.

:::

“It’s all good,” you tell her, but it’s not.

She’s looking at you from across the fire like she’ll do anything to keep you here.

But you _can’t_ lose your head over a girl.

It’s—

You’re safer off, alone.

You knew it, of course, but now you’re reminded once again. Your heart doesn’t need any of her shadows, any of her ghosts.

You’ve got enough of your own.

:::

Of course, she shows up first thing in the morning the day you get back.

It’s been a long and strange week away from the house. You haven’t felt at ease for a single moment of it; the constant sense that you’re somehow shut off from everyone else, that something strange and dark is slowly unfolding. The memory of Dani’s kiss; the dreams in which her lips are soft against your body, waking up to an awful mess of guilt and arousal, and most of all, annoyance at yourself.

You can’t be soft like this.

You can’t let her mess things up.

But, of course, she shows up with dreadful coffee and a nervous smile at six in the morning, and you really don’t stand a chance, do you?

She looks annoyingly proud of herself when you take the cup.

(and really, she is too damn pretty for her own good; with her hair tied back perfectly, exposing the long, pale line of her neck; those golden earrings, that pastel jumper; her eyes, gorgeous and bright, even in the early morning, and that _smile_ , that goddamn smile… God, even when it’s shy, it still makes your stomach flutter in the worst way—)

You busy yourself with the plants while she tells you about her week—

“No Owen… No _you_ …”

She tries to meet your eyes and you feel a sting of guilt at how uncertain she looks, how hard she’s trying.

Still you can’t bear to respond yet, and Dani adds, in a bit of a rush, “I seem to see less and less of Hannah. She just goes out, I guess. By herself. Sometimes I just turn around and she’s—she’s— _gone._ ”

“Sometimes people just need to be alone.”

You’ve said it without thinking and the way her face—her beautiful, perfect face—falls at the words, makes you regret them instantly.

She stares down at the cup in her hands, and you—

_Fine._

She’s got your heart, alright. And she’s _trying_. So, you— 

“Did you wake up, just for this?”

Dani makes a face. “ _No._ ”

She’s such a bad liar. “You just waited for me to come back?”

“I—I—” Dani stumbles over her words. “I knew you were coming back today. But no, no… particular reason.”

It makes you want to smile. “Are the kids awake?”

“Um, no.” She blushes. She actually _blushes_ and the sight of it is enough to make your heart start beating faster. “No, they’re asleep.”

You lean on the table. “So, you just got up with the sun. And you’re tiptoeing around the kitchen, making awful coffee by yourself, just to come say hi at six in the morning, for no particular reason?”

You know you’re teasing, but she can’t seem to take her eyes off you, and it makes you feel—

It makes you feel all sorts of things.

You grin. “Poppins, you flirt.”

You make your way to the other end of the table, still smiling.

Dani follows suit. “Fine,” she says, voice a bit different now. “I—I… I don’t like how we left things.”

She’s up in your space now, close and warm, and you can smell the scent of her shampoo; it makes you want to reach out and touch her.

You turn to her instead. “And how did we leave it?”

She gives you a pointed look. “ _Wrong._ And—I wanted to… I wanted to start doing something right. So I thought I’d start with coffee.”

It takes effort not to smile at that.

But still.

“You sure about that?” Dani’s teeth catch her bottom lip in worry, and you add, “Because every time I think you might be sure, you’ve got this irritating habit of jumping back, like you’ve just seen a scary bug.” She frowns and you turn away from her, to the other table. “Maybe that’s best, really—”

It’s easier to say this when you’re not looking at her.

“I like you—”

There, you’ve said it.

“But I also like my life the way it is. Nice and boring.”

You can’t see her when she says, “Yeah, yeah, I—I wouldn’t want to disrupt that.” It’s a bit of a push-back, a bit sarcastic and sharp, and _that’s_ interesting. You can feel your heart start beating faster, because you can take push-back alright, but then— “Gotta keep things proper borin’, ‘aven’t we?”

The accent is so dreadful that you smile.

God, Dani.

And then, she’s next to you again. “Look, there’s a pub in Bly, right?”

You smile a bit. “There is.”

“Would you want to get a drink?”

Your heartbeat stutters. Something hot in the air between you, suddenly.

Dani pushes on. “Away from the house. Away from all this.” And god, she _does_ flirt. “That could be kind of boring, right?”

You can’t stop your smile. “Could be dreadfully boring.”

“Okay, so I could ask Hannah to watch the kids one night,” she says. “And you and me, could get a boring old drink, in a boring old pub… and see where that takes us.”

And _oh,_ it’s banter now, innit?

It’s almost like a dare, the way she’s looking at you.

“You know I live above that pub, right?” She blushes, turning away from you like she doesn’t want you to see, but you’re seeing it. “Told you that already, didn’t I? Got a little flat. Right above the boring, little pub…”

Her smile is _killing_ you.

She licks at her bottom lip, meets your eyes, almost like she’ll be more than happy to push it just the tiniest bit further, if you’ll let her, but—

:::

_Flora._

:::

Dani frets over her all day, worried and shaky.

“Wake up,” she says, sitting on Flora’s bed, gently shaking her. “Wake up.” Flora opens her eyes and Dani says, “ _Hey_ … Hey, you just nodded off there.”

All soft and worried, and your heart can’t really stand the sight of her being so careful and _good_. 

“What—what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Flora says. “I’m sorry. I’m having a bit of a moment.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Dani says, turning back to look at you for a moment. “We, uh—we just wanna make sure that you’re okay.”

“What were you doing?” Flora asks quietly.

Your heart thumps quick in your chest.

“We were talking,” Dani says, good as always. “We were, uh, talking about the walk. Your—your walk last night. And you… you just…” You can hear the tremble in her voice and it makes you want to reach for her. “Well, it looked like you fainted. But, uh, are you okay now?”

“I’m quite tired,” Flora mumbles. “I’d like to go back to sleep. But to dream, not a memory. Dream this time.”

_God._

Whatever dark thing is waiting to happen, it suddenly got a whole lot darker. 

“Okay,” Dani says, but you can see the fear on her face.

She gets up off the bed slowly, walks out into the hallway and waits until you’ve closed the door behind you but then—

“I don’t know what to do,” she rushes out, voice all panicked. “She’s—she’s not okay and she looks so pale, and I don’t know how to make her feel—how to—”

“Hey.” You pull her into you before you can hold back the impulse. “Poppins, _hey_.”

She is tense against your shoulder, breathing shaky.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, hand on her back, voice close to her ear. “Kids, they just act strange sometimes. It’s going to be okay.”

She softens a bit against you, wraps her arms around you like she needs to anchor herself into you. You stroke a hand through her hair and she sighs, breathes out slowly. “Okay,” she mumbles into your neck. “Okay, you’re right.”

She’s so _good_.

“I’m going to call Henry,” she says, pulling back from you, fire rekindled. “I’m going to speak to him and tell him everything.”

You nod.

She looks at you, and then, with a shaky smile, she brings a hand up to your cheek and strokes her thumb over your cheekbone. It makes your breath catch in your throat. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “It’s easier with you here; to take care of things together.”

It’s so gentle and so unexpected, and—

You want to say, _no, be careful._

You want to say, _don’t touch me like that or I’ll break._

You want to say, _it’s safer alone, I’ve got blood on my hands, and Dani, you’re too good._

But she runs her thumb over your cheekbone again, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like she doesn’t even have to think about it, and somewhere in that moment, you think you make a decision.

:::

It takes all day to get her alone, but then you do.

You stand in front of the gate with the moonflower on it and tell her the truth, about everything; about your family and your lost faith in people and all the blood—the _fight_ of caring, how exhausting it all is. 

_But sometimes, once in a blue goddamned moon, I guess, someone, like this moonflower, just might be worth the effort._

You’re shaking when you say it, shaking when you tell her she doesn’t get to decide who lives and who doesn’t. Shaking when you give away what you _do_ believe; that every living thing grows out of every dying thing. That you’ve got to, with the way that you grew up. 

She kisses you, and you thought you would be scared of it.

Scared to be wanted this much, to want her in return.

Instead, you lean right into it.

:::

Getting back to the house takes a while.

Dani keeps pinning you against trees and kissing you harder and you really, truly, are going to lose your mind if you don’t get to have her inside any time soon. In a room, in a bed, anywhere—

You try to hurry her along, laughing softly into her mouth, saying, “Come on. Dani, _let’s_ _go_.”

She arches an eyebrow at you, like _why the rush_ , and it’s so teasing and _hot_ that you can barely stand it. And so, you are the one who ends up pressing her back into the door of Bly Manor, kissing her until she’s panting, hand on your shoulder to shove you back so she can finally open the door. 

In the hall, she drops her wet, purple coat on the floor, rushing up the stairs without a care for Hannah’s clean floors.

Everything feels hot-blooded and electric between you.

Your hands find Dani’s waist at the end of the hallway upstairs, and then her back collides with her door and you press your hips forward, effectively trapping her against it, kissing her again.

Her hand slides to your neck, palm cool from the rain, but touch hot.

“Jamie,” she says, pulling back for a moment. You press your mouth against her jaw, then lower, kissing a long line down her neck. “Jamie, we have to— _oh._ ”

Her voice gives way to the softest moan and you can barely keep it together at the sound. Arousal surges through your body like fire. She has no idea what she’s doing to you.

It’s a bit of a stumble, then; you manage to get the door open, but Dani almost knocks the both of you right into the dresser.

You laugh. “Easy there, Poppins.”

“Come here,” she says in response. “Please, just—”

She pulls hard on your jacket and kisses you like no one’s ever kissed you—all fire and care and with her heart all over it. Your fingers dig harder into her hips when she slides a hand right into your hair, tugging just a little bit. It makes you groan into the kiss. “God, _Dani_ —”

Her eyes are bright, even in the low light of the room.

“You’re really good at that,” she breathes out, like it’s any excuse.

You can’t stop your smile. “At kissing?”

“All of it.”

It burns low in your body. “That what you think, Poppins?”

And, _fuck,_ she blushes so softly, so beautifully, biting down on her lip right before reaching to drag your jacket off your shoulders. You let it fall to the floor, and then Dani is looking at you, making direct eye contact as she starts pulling on the hem of her jumper.

Your throat goes dry.

“Let me…” you whisper, stepping forward. “Please.”

_Let me do it. Let me touch you._

You’ve thought way too much about taking her clothes off of her; you’re not about to let the chance pass you by now. You don’t care that you can’t play it cool, anymore; that she can probably see how desperate and needy you are about this.

She nods. “Okay.”

You take a step forward, hand on Dani’s hip. She’s flushed and giddy; a little out of control and a _lot_ of charm, and your heart is beating so fast that she must be able to hear it. It’s never been like this before, not with any other girl.

The thought hits you sort of abruptly.

That maybe—

Maybe you should check if—

“Have you done—” Your voice goes hoarse, and you suddenly feel a little bit embarrassed. “I mean, with—”

You end up cutting yourself off because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because you’ve never done this with anyone like Dani, and so maybe both of you are a little bit out of your depth here. You touch the hem of the jumper, subconsciously pulling a tiny bit on it, changing the question. “I mean, is this…”

Her hip is warm against the pad of your thumb, skin so _goddamn_ soft, and you stumble over your words. 

“Is this what?” she whispers back.

Her eyes are wide and searching, and you kiss her softly, letting your hand run a little higher, up under the jumper. “What you want,” you breathe out against her lips. “Is this what you want?”

Your fingers stroke her lower ribs.

Dani exhales hard. “Take it off,” she says, and it sounds pleading. “Jamie. _Please_. Take it off. Take it all—”

You don’t need to be told twice.

You kiss her before she can even finish the sentence, and then you’re pulling her jumper up completely, laughing when it gets stuck on her elbow in your rush to get it off. You throw it on the floor and _stare_. She’s not wearing anything besides a thin bra, and your mouth goes dry at the sight. Before you can process it completely, though, Dani is already back against you, sliding an arm around your neck and kissing you messily.

Your hands drift up on her bare skin, fingers stroking her back, gripping her hips, and then up the plane of her stomach, higher, higher—

Dani arches her back and makes a gasped sound when your thumb hits the underwire of her bra, and you’re not even touching her properly—not yet—but it makes you unsteady on your feet either way.

Your hand hovers.

But then—

“Come on,” Dani says, voice half confidence, half self-consciousness. “Don’t get shy now.”

_God._

She’s really going to be the death of you someday.

You groan and then move your hand up, cupping her over her bra. Her head falls back a bit and you can’t help but lean in and kiss her exposed neck, as you run your thumb over her nipple.

She’s pressing herself against you so hard, like it’s the only thing she wants to feel. You relish in the rush of heat and pride at the feeling.

“Want this off?” you mumble, hooking a finger around her bra strap.

Dani just makes an impatient sound.

Your fingers are trembling slightly, but you still manage to unhook the clasp of her bra pretty easily. She stares at you, eyes dark and full of want, as she lets the thing drop to the floor.

Your breath catches.

“God—” start. “You’re—”

 _Beautiful,_ you want to say.

_Gorgeous. Perfect._

_Everything._

Dani just smirks and then says, “Yeah?”

You yank on her wrist and pull her back against you, kissing her hard, running your hands up and over her. You’re about to bend down to explore the exposed skin with your mouth, but Dani has different plans. She pulls your t-shirt up over your head, making a surprised sort of noise at the back of her throat when she realizes you aren’t wearing anything under it.

You’re a bit smaller than her, a bit more sharp bones and wiry muscles—and for a second you feel self-conscious about it.

But Dani—

Dani is looking at you like she can’t wait to fall in bed with you, and that—

You begin to kick your boots off. Dani does, too, half giggling as she tries to get her hands on the waist of your jeans at the same time, fingers quick and hot, already slipping an inch or so under the waistband—

“ _Poppins_ —”

She blinks innocently. “What?”

You bite down on your bottom lip, then drop to your knees. Dani’s eyes go wide when you flick the button of her jeans open, and more so as you slowly start to drag them down her legs. You look up at her and Dani visibly swallows. You can’t help feeling a little bit smug about it. With careful fingers, you tap her ankle, bringing her knee up as you let her step out.

“Jamie…”

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and Dani’s fingers dig hard into your shoulder.

You grin, echoing her feigned innocence from before. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, laughs as she pulls you up. The both of you fall back onto the bed, and you don’t really know how you get your jeans off but you do, getting rid of them somewhere by the end of the bed, until, suddenly, both of you are almost completely naked.

Her skin is warm and soft. 

You busy yourself for minutes, leaving open-mouthed kisses down the line of her neck, kissing her ribs, teasing your tongue slowly higher. Dani writhes against you, fingers getting tangled in your hair, hand pressing hard on the back of your head until your mouth catches hot and wet around her nipple.

“ _Fuck_.”

Just that word, falling from her lips, is enough to drive you _crazy_.

You want to make her feel so, so good.

And then, things start to blur as Dani somehow gets both her own and your underwear off and starts rocking her hips, all wide eyes and barely contained _want_. You run your hand over her thigh, over her hip, smiling when she makes a little choked-off noise when your thumb presses into the hollow of it. Her head falls back and her chest is flushed, and you’re completely and utterly in awe of her—

Of course, it only takes a moment of distraction like that for her to smile up at you and slide her hand right between your legs.

“Jesus, _fuck—_ ” Your voice catches. “Dani—fuck. _Dani_ …”

She has the nerve to giggle and if she didn’t have her fingers where she has them—touching you messily, enthusiastically—you might have had it in you to scoff.

But right now—

You rock your hips down, trying desperately to hold yourself up, and she really didn’t have to—

This wasn’t about you—

This is—

“Oh my—” you choke out. “Jesus.”

You’re getting wetter with every passing second, and you can feel the blush rising on your cheeks; you’ve got have half the mind to be embarrassed about it, but Dani circles the pads of her fingers right around your clit, and it _can’t_ be this good this quickly, can’t feel like—

_Fucking hell._

The angle is completely off and she doesn’t seem to know exactly what she’s doing, but you feel like you could come all over her hand any moment, anyway.

She presses a kiss to your neck and you slump forward, unable to really hold yourself up—and Dani flips you easily.

“Tell me what to do?” she says, doing something _outrageous_ with her fingers. “Tell me what’s good?”

You can’t help the sound that escapes you.

She doesn’t know that you’re almost—

“Everything,” you breathe out. “Everything is— _fuck, Dani, if you_ —I won’t—”

Her fingers slide lower and you moan.

Dani grins, presses her mouth to yours for a hot second, before saying, “Won’t what?”

You’ve got to—

Your hand shoots down to grab her wrist, and you can barely say it, but— “Won’t last long, love. Not if you’re going to keep that up.”

She bites on her bottom lip, her eyes like fire as they meet yours, the blush rising higher on her cheeks. You catch her mouth with yours and use your weight to roll her back until you’re right between her legs. Her head falls back onto the pillow as you kiss down between her breasts, lower and lower.

When your mouth hits her hip, you hesitate for a second. But Dani’s pushed one of her legs up, sole of her foot flat to the bed, already pushing herself closer to you, and—

“Can I—”

“ _Yes_.”

It’s soft and almost pleading.

You kiss your way between her legs slowly—feeling every second of it, tasting every second of it. You want this to last. You want this to be so damn good for her. You want her to want _you_ between her legs and no one else—and the way she keeps making all these noises, the way she keeps saying your name, the way her fingers tighten in your hair when you work her up more and more—

She gets incoherent and impatient.

_Yes. Fuck… Jamie… That’s—_

When you slide your fingers between her legs and touch her properly, she whispers, “Please… _please_ …” and she could be begging you for anything and you would give it—your mouth, your touch, your heart.

Dani comes, twice in quick succession, and you’re blushing and smiling when she grabs your hand and laughs, all breathless release and dopamine.

“God,” she says. “That was… is it—”

You let her interlace your fingers. “Is it what?”

Her smile curls even wider. “Always like that?”

You laugh, press your lips against the inside of her thigh in an attempt to hide how affected you are by her saying that. But it’s like Dani knows because she pulls hard on your hand, pulls until you’ve made your back up so she can look you in the eyes.

And then she gives you a cheeky grin and says, “Can it be my turn now?”

It’s bold and flirty and attractive—and as she touches you, wandering fingers and quick confidence, you’re thinking, she is worth it.

You were right about the moonflower.

You were right to risk it.

:::

When you wake up in her bed, you’re alone, but you don’t mind. Dani’s got the kids to take care of and besides—if you’d just walked into the kitchen together, Hannah would have been on the pair of you like a vulture, all questions and teasing and narrowed eyes.

So, this is probably for the best.

Still, you can’t help but run your hand over Dani’s pillow and breathe in deeply, wanting to stay in the dream of it a little bit longer.

You think about how you used to lie in beds when you were younger—on couches, on floors, or out on the street, if it was particularly bad—and feel so tense with anxiety that you couldn’t even close your eyes.

You think about all the fear in your heart, all the fight in your heart. The thought that there would never, ever be a morning like this. You breathe in the scent of Dani’s shampoo, and feel like something inside of you, something buried so deep you had almost forgotten about it, is resting now.

:::

She doesn’t make it easy on you, does she?

“You could… come back.”

It wouldn’t take much to convince you, really. The thought of your cold, lonely bed at home is truly not that appealing—and Dani’s smile and pleading eyes surely aren’t helping. But you also know you need to have a few hours alone; that too much of a good thing too soon, can ruin it. Even though you couldn’t possibly think of _anything_ that could ruin how you feel about her now.

And so you say, “Good night.” Her face falls a little bit, but you take her hands and pull her closer. “Just good night…” _Not goodbye._ “There are other nights, and there will be other nights.”

She’s soft and close, her voice almost a whisper. “You promise?”

You kiss her, and Dani kisses you back a little more desperately; hand on your back pulling you closer against her. You laugh against her lips. “Promise.”

:::

The thing is—

As soon as you’ve got something good, it can be taken away from you.

All those bloody fights from your past; you should have known the world wasn’t done with you just yet.

:::

You dream—

A dark and twisted, _awful_ dream of shadows and water, and Dani—

Something’s happening to Dani.

You wake up with a scream caught halfway in your throat and the phone ringing relentlessly; Owen panicked and freaking out as much as you are, and this is how everything changes, isn’t it?

The beasts were hiding and now they’ve come out to claw you all to pieces.

:::

_It’s you. It’s me. It’s us._

It will be a while before you understand what has happened.

:::

Dani is freezing when you pull her out of the lake, clutching Flora against her like she can’t bear the thought of letting her go. You’ve seen shock before, but not like this.

Her beautiful face is completely screwed up with fear and panic, and there’s something wrong with her eyes that you can’t really figure out, but it makes your chest ache so much that you can barely stand it. 

“Shh,” you say. “Shh.”

How you make it to the house, you’re not sure. Hannah is gone and there’s a _godawful_ feeling in your chest at the realization, something horrid and sad that about it that you can’t place yet. And there are things that have happened in that lake, things you should speak about, but you can’t—

Not with Dani trembling the way she is.

Not yet.

Owen takes Flora, although Dani doesn’t seem to want to let her go. Only when you take her hands in yours instead, and say, “I got you, I got you…” she lets herself be pulled away from the child.

You flick the light on in the bathroom, walking over to the bathtub to draw a bath, but Dani makes a sound and shakes her head.

“No—no, not the—”

You’re back in front of her in seconds, grabbing her hands. “Okay. No bath. Got it. I got it.”

Something happened in the lake. Something dark and ghostly. It’s worked its way right into Dani’s heart, and now she doesn’t want—

“Dani,” you say softly. “You’ve got to warm up, though. You’ve got to…”

She looks at you, making eye contact for the first moment and it takes everything in you not to gasp.

The iris of her left eye is a light and startling brown.

“Shower?” you say instead.

Dani bites on her bottom lip, then nods.

With careful hands, you take her wet clothes off her body, one by one, while you wait for the water to heat up. When she steps into the shower, her hand reaches back, and you will not ever let her go again, so you take it, squeeze it hard. She’s naked and trembling in front of you, and it’s nothing like the last time. This—

This is—

Dani gasps as she looks at you, and then she’s crying, full on crying, and you feel like you can’t breathe.

It’s just one step into the shower. You hold her so close that it hurts, the water soaking right through your clothes.

“I’m here,” you say. “I’m right here.”

She just cries harder.

You run your hand up and down her back in soothing circles, press your mouth to her temple in the softest kiss. She clutches onto your wet t-shirt and won’t let you go for even a second.

Steam rises all around you. Dani keeps her eyes closed the entire time—like she can’t even look at the water.

Eventually, you manage to grab a hold of the shampoo bottle and she lets you softly run your fingers through her hair, untangling the knots, until she’s starting to relax against you, until her breathing starts to even out.

“That’s it, Poppins,” you mumble. “You’re okay, everything’s okay. It’s over now. I got you and it’s over.”

She opens her eyes—the sight of those different colors still a shock—and then she whispers, “Promise?”

It’s an echo of last night.

“Yes.” Your voice cracks on the word. “Yes, Dani. It’s over.”

She gives you the tiniest nod and a barely audible _okay_.

Thing is—it’s not over by any means.

In fact, it’s barely begun.

:::

Eventually, Dani says, “Want to feel your skin.” She pulls the soaked t-shirt off your body and makes you kick off your wet boots and pants. It’s not sexual in any way. It’s humanizing. She needs to feel how warm you are, how alive, how real—and you need it just as much. You stay in the shower, wrapped around each other, until you’ve probably used up all the hot water, and even then, it takes you a long time to let go of her.

:::

Eventually, she tells you. About the lake. And Viola. And the beast.

“Do you want company? While you wait for your beast in the jungle?”

There’s a trick you remember from being a kid. A trick to make yourself feel less alone, when you were curled up under stuffy blankets in beds that weren’t your own. A trick to make everything feel less dark, even for just a moment.

You hold out your pinky to her and after a moment, she wraps hers around it—and there were days when you had to face all the beasts yourself, and it was the darkest and most awful thing.

It’s the last thing you want for her.

You press your kiss against her knuckles, make it last as long as you can.

:::

America is different.

You have never been this far away from home in your entire life, and it makes you a bit jittery, a bit restless. You want to try everything. You want to go everywhere. It mostly makes Dani smile.

“You’re like a child,” she says, when you’re out for breakfast, one of the first mornings.

You grin, mouth full, syrup dripping down your chin. “‘ave you tasted—these—‘ancakes?”

She makes a face at you. “Even Miles and Flora have better table manners.”

You swallow. “Miles and Flora were raised in a mansion with a private cook and a nanny.”

“Au pair,” she corrects with a wink.

It makes you grin at her from across the table, feeling happier than you can express at the fact that this is one of the first time’s she’s mentioned the house without talking about _that_ night.

You cut a bite for her, complete with strawberries and whipped cream and sickeningly sweet syrup. She rolls her eyes when you hold up the fork. But you just raise your eyebrow at her daringly, and she sighs, giving in at she eats the food off your fork.

“Alright.” She hums at the taste. “This is great.”

You grin, eyes dropping down to her mouth, and Dani—of course—takes advantage of it right away, because she smiles even wider, before swiping her index finger through the whipped cream on your plate and licking it off with just a bit too much attitude.

“You’re the worst,” you say, cheeks warm.

Dani laughs, before letting go of her coffee cup and grabbing a hold of your hand. There are people around but it’s early enough—and besides, Dani doesn’t really seem to care. Her eyes are focused on you and nothing but you.

You give her hand a soft squeeze. “So,” you say, and Dani raises her eyebrows because she knows you way too well already.

Her voice is just a little bit teasing. “What are you working up the courage to say to me now?”

You roll your eyes. “Nothing—it’s—I don’t do that, I’ll have you know.”

She grins, doesn’t push back.

And she really _does_ know you, doesn’t she? Knows exactly how much it takes for you to be this open with her; to share yourself with someone in this way that you never thought you would. 

Maybe it’s that thought that makes you say, “I was just wondering how you wanted to do this.”

“This?”

“Yeah, like—” You shift a little. “Do we want to rent a car? Do we want to use Henry’s money and fly to the other coast first?”

Dani’s expression changes. “Oh.”

You instantly feel unsure. “I mean, unless you don’t want to go anywhere. I’m fine with staying here for a while, but I thought… I just thought maybe you had an idea of places you wanted to go or, I don’t know, landmarks you want to see.”

The corners of her mouth curl up. “Like a road trip?”

“Yes, Poppins,” you say, and it’s casual only to mask the light flutter in your stomach. “I thought that was the plan.”

Truth is, you haven’t really discussed anything yet. You’ve arrived in America with only the need to get away from Bly as quickly as possible, but it’s been a few days now, a few days of some hotel close to the airport, of hours spent in diners and mindlessly wandering around. And it’s not that you don’t enjoy it, it’s just that—

“You want to go on a road trip?” Dani says, voice soft. “Like, a real road trip?”

Your brow furrows. “Dani, why else would I be here?”

She runs a hand through her hair. “I mean, I don’t know—I… There could be many reasons, actually, so I… I didn’t—” She rambles when she’s nervous, and your mouth twitches with the effort to hold back your smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d—”

“Do you think I’d just follow anyone across the pond?” you say.

She blushes and you _love_ it.

Her smile is shy when she says, “You don’t think you’re going to get sick of me?”

You wink. “Well, we’ll have to see about that.”

She tries to kick you under the table, but then she laughs and squeezes your hand so hard it almost hurts, and you really want to kiss her, but it’s a bit much, maybe, for the café.

Fortunately, Dani seems to have about the same idea because she rushes to throw a bunch of dollar notes on the table, and pulls you right out of the diner, not letting go of your hand until you’re back in the hotel, where she kisses you senseless the moment you close the door behind you.

:::

A road trip, then.

Of course, it’s not without ups and downs. Mostly Dani seems to be taken by gripping bouts of anxiety about how much time you’ve got left, and how much longer the two of you will be able to live this life.

“One day at a time is fine by me,” you tell her, and you mean it.

_As long as those days are with you._

You haven’t meant anything as much as that.

:::

It’s a worn-down store front and an apartment up top that’s in an even worse state, but the moment you see it, you know it’s right.

There’s a lot of good to build, and this how you build it.

Long days spent painting walls, sitting on the floor together eating pizza out of the box, wearing overalls or oversized t-shirts that Dani’s fuzzy about at first, insisting that you have to at least _try_ and keep them clean—something she gives up on the moment you put on your favorite pair of denim shorts and end up with your back pressed against the newly painted wall. Dani, apparently, cares less about clean clothes than she does about getting her hands under them. You have to re-paint the entire wall.

Long mornings of bickering about the name of the shop, until you finally hesitantly scrabble down _The Leafling_ on a piece of paper and Dani quiets, before smiling like it’s decided just like that. Waking up early to sort through orders and arrangements, getting coffee from the place around the corner. The customers who come and then come back, and slowly become as much a part of your life as anything else.

Long nights in your apartment with wine and cigarettes—when Dani breathes in too deeply the first time, and starts coughing, but laughs and kisses you hard, and you end up undressing her right there on the floor. Kissing your way across her body. Feeling like you will never want anything other than this. 

There’s a lot of good, and you get to have all of it.

:::

She finds you a ring and asks you to marry her, and you cry and kiss her senseless—and for a while, it’s like the whole world seems to exist for just the two of you. That’s what it feels like, at least.

:::

“Do you want to have kids?” she says, on the last morning of your honeymoon—that’s not a honeymoon, but actually is—to Paris.

You choke on your coffee. “Poppins—”

She smirks. “It’s not a proposition.” Her eyes get that teasing little glint that always manages to rile you up. “I hate to break it to you, babe, but I couldn’t get you pregnant if I tried, and I’ve certainly—” 

“ _Jesus, Dani—_ ”

Your cheeks are flaming red.

She laughs, loud and happy. You’re sitting on the balcony, in the early morning sun. Dani’s hair is messy from the bed, the hotel bathrobe hangs loose around her shoulders, and she is looking at you like this is the most amusing thing in the world. “Why are you getting so shy?”

You take a big gulp of your coffee, before rubbing your hands, that suddenly feel a tiny bit sweaty, on your shorts. “Kids?” you say, glancing at Dani unsurely. “I don’t know, I mean—how would—and what—”

She grabs your hand. “Honey, it’s just a question.” She squeezes it, smile softening. “I just wanted to know if you’ve ever thought about it.”

There must be something completely frightened in your expression, because before you know it, Dani’s climbing right into your lap, wrapping her arm around your shoulder and pressing herself closer to you.

The chair is definitely too small for two people but you don’t care.

You take a breath. “I mean—”

The truth is that you haven’t actually thought about it; you’ve been focused on _one day at a time_ and running the shop together and just being with her. Focused on building a life with the woman you love. And it’s been perfect. It’s more than perfect.

And, sure, she’s not propositioning you, but Dani’s eyes are bright and blue in the early morning light, and she’s got the softest expression on her face, and all of a sudden, it’s right there. The thought that maybe, you _could_ consider this.

Could consider what she’d look like with a baby in her arms, what it would be like; school uniforms and a house with a garden and birthday cake.

Except, how would you raise a kid if you—

If you’ve always been—

Dani runs a hand through your hair. “What’s happening in your head? Talk to me, please.”

You meet her eyes, voice shaky when you’d breathe out, “Dani, you know I’m not good with kids.”

“What?” Her face changes instantly. “Miles and Flora adored you—adore you, still, even if we see them not nearly often enough.” She frowns deeper. “How could you think that you’re not any good with kids?”

It takes effort to swallow past the emotion. “With Mikey—”

Understanding catches just like that.

“Baby.” She presses her mouth to your cheek. “That’s not…” She looks at you. “You were a child. It’s not the same.”

“I know,” you mumble. “I know, but… I still feel like maybe…”

She strokes a thumb over your cheek. “You can dream a bit, you know? There’s no harm in a little bit of dreaming. Doesn’t mean you have to commit to anything.” Another kiss to your skin. “You’re allowed to imagine. To think. To fantasize a bit. Whatever that may be.”

You breathe in the scent of her skin, of her hair.

You love her so much.

“Do you?” you mumble. “Fantasize about it?”

She grins. “Oh, yeah.”

That makes your mouth curl and your eyebrow rise. “You do?”

She runs her fingers up and down the back of your neck, and it makes you shiver, which only makes her smile wider.

“I can totally picture it,” she hums, a little giddy now. “Barely getting any sleep. Pancakes for breakfast. Couple of little rascals like you, who scrape their knees on everything and won’t agree to bedtime.”

You pinch her side and Dani laughs.

“Or they only ever want to dress in pastel jumpers and never properly learn how to make tea,” you tease back.

It’s meant to be light, just a bit of a jab, but the look that Dani gives you changes that. The way her eyes light up, the way her cheeks color a pretty pink and she leans in and kisses you in between wide smiles.

“Or,” she says, softer and sweeter. “They’ll love flowers and playing with the dogs. And they’ll act tougher than they are and get grumpy when their feet are cold.”

Affection bursts in your chest.

“Or…” you whisper back. “They talk through movies and are bad at dancing. But they’ll be kind and funny, and they do brave things, even when they’re scared.” 

Dani kisses you.

“See,” she mumbles against your lips. “You can picture it, if you want.”

Days ago, she was upset and trembling at the realization that things are getting worse; that Miles and Flora don’t remember what happened, that her thoughts are getting foggy, that her beast is waking up—

And now she’s kissing you like this, pushing you back into the cushions on the chair and dreaming up something ridiculous and a little wild.

Dreaming up something you might never have, not in this life anyway, but that is worth to dream up, anyway. Worth to pour a little effort into.

Like a moonflower, blooming for a singular night.

:::

Your fear feels irrelevant. Her panic feels irrelevant. This is what it means to be in love. To be fearful and panicked—and love each other right through it.

:::

It’s easy to feel like you’ll be able to hold the dark off forever, but time has other plans.

:::

You and Dani fight sometimes, of course you do.

But never, _ever_ , like this. 

Strangely, it almost explodes almost from nothing.

One moment, Dani is simply irritated with you for one thing or another—messing up an order at the shop, forgetting to do something you promised—and the next, the conversation somehow shifts, and out of nowhere, Dani is yelling, “If you want to leave, then why don’t you just fucking _leave_ —”

“ _What_ —” Your heart is racing and you’ve got no idea where this went wrong or why she’s even saying what she’s saying. “Why would you think—”

“You don’t get it,” she snaps. “You don’t get how any of this feels! You just go ahead, every single day, living your life and forgetting to write down orders, like it doesn’t matter, like you can make mistakes and correct them later. Like you’ve got all the time in the world and everything is fine and I’m not just— _fighting_ the whole time—”

“I’m not acting like it doesn’t matter! Dani, I’m—”

“—and if you’re going to leave, then let’s just get it over with—”

Hot tears are burning in her eyes. Anger slashes through you like lighting. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Isn’t that what you do?” she cuts in, sharp and angry and _mean_. “Leave when things get hard?”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Dani seems to realize she pushed it one step too far in the same moment that your adrenaline spikes and the lightning in your body spins and spins, then _sets you aflame—_

“Don’t,” you breathe out, “Don’t you _dare_ , Dani, or I swear to God, I’ll—”

Regardless of the guilt in her eyes, she still looks proud for just a moment, just a flicker of a moment, that she’s got you to fight back, that you’re finally this angry with her—

—and _goddammit_ , it _is_ effort, isn’t it? It _is_ hard work to love someone.

“You’ll what?” she says, cutting at you.

The fight inside of you erupts. All the anger, all the pain—you were wrong to think it wouldn’t. Wrong to think that you were only a little girl who fought on the playgrounds once, that maybe you could keep your knuckles clean. The past is a twisty, spinning thing, and just like that, your hands are splitting open, and there’s blood everywhere.

“You’re out of your mind,” you bite out, stepping up to her. “Out of your _goddamn_ mind, Dani, if you think that _this_ is the way to have this conversation.” She flinches at how close you are suddenly, and you think: good. “You want to talk about leaving?” The anger twists inside you, hot and ugly, but you can’t hold it back now. “Have you ever anywhere people were trying to kill you? Where people would stab you to fucking death for a needle or a bag or just because!” Her mouth twists into a grimace, but if she wants to fight, then you will fight. “I’ve left, because you can’t live in fucking _hell_ , Dani, can you?. You can’t sleep in beds where people might try to assault you. Can’t stay in places where you’re not safe.”

Her whole expression changes. “Jamie—”

“No, you don’t get to take it back—not as easy as that—”

To think that all this time you’ve been so afraid of arguing with her, of pushing her away, of being nothing but an angry kid again, and now all of a sudden, it’s the only way to speak, the only thing holding you steady.

“I’m just—” 

“You think I don’t _get it_?” you choke out. “You think you’re the only one who’s got a beast to fight? Think I don’t know a fucking thing about ghosts?” It’s like a blaze, the heat of what you’re saying. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m right fucking _here_.”

She looks at you, her breathing hard. 

Anger suspended in the air between you, simmering and tense.

Dani turns around and you can’t stand it, can’t stand that she has forced you right into her corner and now wants to leave you there.

Your hand catches her wrist, and she spins around quicker than you anticipated, pushing you until your back hits the wall, and then—

She kisses you hard. Hands in your hair. Tongue and lips and teeth—

You gasp into her mouth and Dani’s hands are already half up and under your shirt. It’s desperate and needy and _pleading_ , and you—

This is not part of how you fight.

She pulls back like she feels it. And it’s hard to read her face, impossible, for once, to figure out what’s going through her mind, but she is giving you an out, she’s saying, _I don’t decide this alone,_ and you love her, love her, love her so goddamn fucking much, even like this—and so you yank on her wrist and pull her back against you.

She licks into your mouth and presses herself against your body, running one hand up your shirt at the same time she pushes her thigh right between your legs, making you groan.

“ _Dani_ —”

“I love you,” she says, into your mouth, before kissing you again. 

It burns through your whole body, and it’s not an apology, is it? The fight isn’t over. But maybe you can fight and love each other at the same time. Maybe you can fight and not have it feel like it will smash you into pieces.

She shifts her leg to increase the pressure, and you know you’re getting wet, you know she’s working you up fast and desperately; her mouth hot on your neck and her thumb already on the button of your jeans.

She slides the zipper down next, fingers on the edge of your underwear, her voice suddenly breathless and self-conscious, when she says, “Can I?”

The fact that she asks your permission softens your anger; melts it into heat and want and _arousal_ , because it’s still not an apology, but it’s concession, it’s—

She really does love you.

And maybe this desire and this anger and this fear are still the petals of your moonflower; are still the effort of your love. 

The crazy rush of mixed emotions through your body, makes you weak in the knees.

You nod, unable to say anything.

_Please._

She fucks you right there, against the wall of the apartment you share, with a hand up your shirt and your jeans barely past your hips, in the middle of the worst fight you’ve ever had, and it’s deliriously, _maddingly_ good. 

When you come, you pull her face to yours so you can kiss her.

“Jamie,” she starts, pulling back. “I’m—”

“Later,” you say.

You’re not done. Now that she’s back against you, you need to feel her completely. You undress each other on the way to the bedroom, and then you push Dani down onto her back, and hold her there.

She gasps when you lick between her legs, and then, with your hands sliding up and down her body — hands so used to fighting; now running her entire body into pleasure — Dani moans a raw and dirty sound, and writhes against you like it’s the best fucking thing she’s ever felt. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she swears. “God—Jamie… baby—”

And that—

How she calls you _baby_ with the fight still in your bodies, is the sweetest, most layered, most sacred thing; how you can go through fights and end up on the other side of them. This is a thing you never fully realized.

When she comes, it’s with her hands tight in your hair, like she can’t stand to let you go.

You kiss your way back up her body only when she softens her grip, and when you reach her lips, Dani’s got tears in her eyes.

Concern hits your body like a wave. “Fuck,” you swear. “Dani—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry I said all that.”

You pull her close, stroking her fingers through her hair. “Baby…” It takes you a second to find your voice to tell her, “It’s good. It’s all good.”

It’s not _good,_ really. Nothing is exactly good if this is how bad things are getting, if this is how much the house has got her in its grip. But it’s good, because you love this person you fight with, and you wouldn’t leave her for the world.

Not ever.

She presses her face against your shoulder. When she speaks, it’s so soft, you shouldn’t be able to hear it, but you hear every word. “She’s making me… She’s making me think all sorts of things.”

Viola.

“I know,” you mumble. “But you’ve got to know she’s lying.” Dani glances up at you, and you add, “She wants you to go back to that damned manor, and so she tells you lies that will make it easier to go.”

Dani nods. Her lips part and then she says, “It will break my heart, you know.”

“What will?”

She just looks at you, leaving the silence to answer for itself.

You bite down so hard on your bottom lip that you taste blood. “It will break my heart, too.” 

:::

Things get worse.

Broken dishes and water on the floor and Dani’s dreams that get more and more terrifying with each month, so bad that you’ll rather lose hours of sleep and hold her in your arms than watch her fight off any more shadows.

“Tell me a story,” Dani says, one night when she’s trembling and upset.

“I don’t—” You’re still shocked into the panic of her nightmare yourself. “Baby, I don’t know that many stories.”

“Anything,” she says. “A story. A memory. Something that happened to you once. Just… just to distract me for a bit.”

You pull her closer. “Okay,” you say, racking your brains for something, anything. “Okay, Poppins, I can do that.”

She presses her mouth against your sternum, less kiss, more just to breathe you in.

“Did I…” You hesitate but it’s the first thing you can think of. “Did I ever tell you about the time that Denny pushed me through a glass door when I was five?”

Her inhale is sharp. “A glass door?”

“A glass window pane, actually,” you say. “The door was framed and all. Doesn’t matter.” Another deep and steadying breath. “Can’t even remember much about it, but we were playing some game on the stairs that he was losing at. Kids, you know?”

Dani chuckles a bit, and the thing is—this is not a nice story. Nothing sweet or good.

“He was so scared I was gonna tell mum on him.”

Dani’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “Did you?”

“Of course,” you say, and she smiles a bit, and pulls you closer.

Not a nice story at all; there’s blood all over it.

But it’s the first thing you can think of, the first thing you remember clearly, and you’ll do anything to keep her mind here with you.

Anything to keep the beast from snatching away the ending.

:::

_What if I’m here, sitting next to you, and I’m really just her?_

Beasts sneak up on you in the night, though, lurking, lurking—

—until they pounce.

:::

The note sets off your body into anger like an electric shock.

_How dare she._

How _fucking_ dare she.

Not Dani.

That, that—goddamn _monster_.

The fury is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before; pure and raging, white-hot and dangerous. Ready to shred the world to fucking pieces. All across the ocean, all the way down the winding English country roads you had wanted to leave behind forever, it fuels you with an adrenaline that’s worse than anything you’ve ever taken.

How dare she.

How dare she think she can get away from this.

If a lady in a lake can will an entire house into a gravitational point of death, then you can will her to stay the _fuck_ away from your wife.

You’ve been in fights since you were born, and you have won them all.

:::

You’ve been in fights since you were born, and you have won them all.

You’ve been bruised and bloodied up over every goddamn thing that was ever yours—your home, your teeth, your eyes, your brothers, your roses, your cigarettes—and none of it has ever killed you.

Now you wish it had.

Here, on the shore of the lake, dripping with the water that won’t take you, you wish you’d been beaten to death in every single fight you’ve ever had.

You’ve only ever wanted to be hers. But they’re opposites—love and ownership—and Dani won’t have you, so you wish everything else had killed you while it could.

_It’s you. It’s me. It’s us._

You want to scream yourself to pieces. You want to curse every fucking moonflower in the world. You’re a small girl with bloody knuckles, and your heart—the one thing that was ever truly worth a fight—is broken now.

:::

_You don’t get to decide who lives and dies, I’m sorry, Dani, but you don’t._

Turns out, no one does.

:::

It hurts to remember.

That’s the thing that no one talks about. It hurts to find the places inside of you where you can hear her voice, picture her smile, taste her kiss; it _fucking_ hurts, and so you don’t.

Instead, stubbornly, desperately, you just expect her to return; expect her to walk right back into your apartment one night and drop her keys on the table.

_Hi, baby._

You have lost almost every single person you have ever loved, and none of the ghosts you got, are the ones you fucking wanted.

But still; you leave your doors open, you let water pool up in your bathtub.

You wait.

:::

Time is like confetti; scattered on the floor, sometimes shot up in the air for celebration.

A party. Or a birthday. Or a wedding. 

:::

Flora’s rehearsal dinner, of all nights, isn’t a place where you thought you would speak.

You’re not one for speeches, anyway.

But they’re all right here—Miles and Henry Wingrave, and Flora, of course, so grown-up and kind and wonderful. And then, Owen, the prick, has to go ahead and outright say it, right there, moments after you’ve joined the table.

_To truly love another person, is to accept that the work of loving them, is worth the pain of losing them._

You can picture Hannah with a sudden ache in your chest, and whenever you think of Hannah, your mind drifts and spins, and always ends up going to—

Nights at Bly; a ghost in a greenhouse, a shaky confession in front of a blooming moonflower, hands tangled in your hair and kisses down your throat. Nights in Vermont; books in bed and whispered conversations, way too late, knowing that you would have to drink an extra cup of coffee in the morning to make it through work. Nights, filled with panic and fear, stroking your hand over Dani’s back as she pleaded, _please_ , _tell me something, anything, just tell me a_ —

“I have a story.”

Something catches in your chest.

For good measure, you add, “Well, it isn’t really my story… It belongs to someone I knew—and it’s not exactly short.”

A ghost story. Perhaps, you can tell it like that. With distance and control. Without having to be in it.

But by the end, when you’ve said Dani’s name out loud so many times that your throat has gone hoarse, the emotion wells up in your throat anyway.

“Years would go by,” you say, “And as she slept underneath the water, the au pair’s memories would fade. Like Viola before her, like the children, she, too, would forget her past. She would know nothing of the gardener, nothing of their life together. The details, the specific moments, would all fade away.”

It makes your voice tremble. Because isn’t that the only explanation? Haven’t you left her a hundred paths so she could walk back into your life, and hasn’t she taken none of them?

“More time will pass,” you go on. “And the water will wash away the delicate features of her.”

 _Dani_.

“Of her beautiful, perfect face.” 

Your love.

“But she won’t be hollow or empty,” you say. “And she won’t pull others to her fate.”

Heaven knows you’ve tried.

“She will merely walk the grounds of Bly, harmless as a dove, for all of her days.”

You have to swallow past the pain.

“Leaving the only trace of who she once was, in the memory of the woman who loved her most.”

 _Tell me a story,_ she’d said, so many nights.

Well, now you have.

:::

It’s a beautiful wedding. You watch it all, with a flute of champagne in your hand.

It’s a strange thing—the way time bends and folds, how nothing is the same, and yet it is. Owen, suddenly younger in your mind, with his thick moustache. Miles a little boy, barely reaching taller than your shoulder. And Flora, smiling as she dances with her father.

You catch her eyes, for a moment, Flora’s—and for a second, for the most electric second of the entire night, she looks at you like she knows exactly who you are.

Time bends and folds, scatters like confetti.

::: 

There’s a bathtub to fill when you get back to your room.

As you watch the water rise, you think about the story, about the effort of telling it the way it happened—including your heartbreak of it, including the fight, including the way she looked at you, that first day, just a shy, quick glance, and accidentally set your world on fire without even trying. 

How much you’d still do to feel it for the both of you.

The chair in front of the door, is not a place to sleep. Dani would tell you to get into bed. You sit down in the chair, anyway, lying down your head to rest.

Just in case she wants to find you here.

Time bending and folding, setting into something clearer now.

Any moment, really, could be the next moment. Drift off to sleep with a hand on your shoulder. Dream, feel the press of soft and smiling lips against your cheek. Wake to the voice of your love, as she whispers—

— _tell me;_

_—tell me about the stairs and the glass and the blood; about the house and the roses and the ghosts; tell me your memories, everything you remember;_

_—tell me a story, and then tell me again._

**Author's Note:**

> “When we die, we turn into stories. And every time someone tells one of those stories, it’s like we’re still here for them.” – Olivia Crain, from ‘The Haunting of Hill House’ 
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr: e-lec-tric-in-di-go.


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